


Mutual hardships

by Aja



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon, arthur enjoys swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-10
Updated: 2014-04-10
Packaged: 2018-01-18 20:35:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1441987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aja/pseuds/Aja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur's life is always hardest, but Eames' life is not that easy either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mutual hardships

**Author's Note:**

> for the anon on tumblr who asked for something for the tags '[arthur's life always hardest](http://bookshop.tumblr.com/tagged/arthur%27s-life-always-hardest)' and 'eames' life is not that easy' back in, uh, november. /o\ sorry for the delay, nonny.

Arthur keeps his hair slicked straight back, except for the moments when he oversleeps and winds up needing to comb it on the way into their morning meeting.

On those mornings, the ends of it are unruly and ever-so-slightly frizzed, a visible sign of his annoyance, as if he'd been unable to expend the normal effort to scold them into place. They curl up around his ears and the base of his neck.

Eames will catch himself gazing at the flyaways at various moments throughout the day—usually when Arthur thinks he's saying something terribly important, and that Eames is blatantly insulting his intelligence by ignoring him.

So he'll turn from the writeboard and glare at Eames, and all Eames can think is this: Is Arthur ticklish just there, below the shell of his ear?

Would he squirm and sigh if Eames pressed his mouth there, or would he do what he's doing now and frown and look ready to elbow Eames in the solar plexus?

It's a problem, this Arthur situation. If Eames is being honest with himself, it's always been a problem, since the first job he and Arthur worked together, when Arthur with his sharp eyes and sharper tongue had marched in, taken one look at Eames' workspace, and declared he didn't get paid enough to work with amateurs and slobs. Eames was so determined that first day to leave Arthur speechless that he supposes he got into the habit and it never fully left him. Even after he finally got a "nice work," a raised eyebrow, and once even a full-blown smirk out of Arthur, Eames was left wanting more.

Or maybe it's _because_ of the smirks and the half-smiles that Eames wants more. He's been wanting more from Arthur for so long that at some point he took to wanting Arthur—just Arthur.

Like most of the problems in Eames' life, he is adept at ignoring this one. Usually. It's just that moments like these, when Arthur arrives at the warehouse with flushed cheeks and scowls, his hair springy at the tips, are an exception to Eames' general rule of avoidance. It would be just his luck that the days  he can't seem to stop looking are the days Arthur seems most deeply infuriated to look up and find Eames watching him. Eames tries not to dwell on what Arthur's cold gaze means in these moments.

He wonders what will make Arthur angrier, staying and finishing the job now that he's inevitably, accidentally, managed to burrow his way under Arthur's skin, or packing it in and leaving altogether just to have some peace. He doesn't like contemplating how deeply furious Arthur could get at him—for all they clash, Arthur's never truly gotten angry with him the way he used to get with Cobb, and Eames knows what that says about Arthur's patience, and how much leeway he gives Eames. But in the long run, maybe it's the only way to rescue their equilibrium. Eames hates feeling wrongfooted, especially around Arthur.

So he goes back to his hotel room that night, puts his feet up, and calls Arthur from the hotel room phone. Longshot, but there's a slight chance Arthur won't immediately recognize it and pick up. So sue him; he likes his passive aggression, thanks.

"Darling," he tells Arthur's voice mail, "I'm bowing out on this one. I was shit today and you know it. You don't need another distracted extractor whose messes you need to clean up. You should have plenty of time to wrap up without me, yeah? Call Ozar, she's good at filling in. I'll probably see you in Minsk next month, yeah? Ta."

He hangs up the phone, rubs his eyes. If he's lucky, Arthur might work with him again, though probably not as an extractor. Arthur won't make it personal, though. He never does. Maybe Eames will get really lucky and Arthur will turn out to not give a shit about Eames at all.

He laughs, and Arthur opens his hotel door.

Eames has a moment to contemplate diving for his beretta, still in his jacket side pocket, but instead he blinks stupidly at Arthur, who calmly palms the key he stole to get inside and glares at him levelly.

"Hello," Eames says.

"You do _not_ get to make everything about you, Eames," says Arthur. "And you do _not_ get to leave just because you're an idiot."

Eames has no idea what to say to this, so he says nothing. Arthur comes further into the room and sits on the other unoccupied bed. He steeples his fingers and looks at Eames expectantly.

"This job is a cakewalk," Arthur says. "If you're going to leave me, you had fuck well better make sure it's over something more major than your inability to keep it in your pants around me."

Eames, when he can speak again, foregoes the obvious entendre and rasps, "I had the impression I'd be doing you a favor. No one likes to be harassed, however unintentionally."

Arthur gives him the most grandiose eyeroll Eames has ever seen. "You ruin _everything_ ," he mutters. "I was going to ask you out after this job ended. I was going to make you take me out on a real live date and then I was going to make you fuck me on one of these stupid hotel beds and then we were going to spend the next fortnight drunk and having sex on the goddamn beach."

"Oh," says Eames.

"Yes, 'oh,'" Arthur retorts. "Why the fuck did you think we were doing a job in fucking Fiji? Who even goes to Fiji unless the end goal is to fuck on the beach? But no, you just had to have sudden onset gentleman syndrome after—how many years have we known each other?"

"Four," Eames replies automatically.

Arthur rakes a hand through his hair. " _Four_ years, and you pick now to decide you can't handle whatever this is. Jesus."

Eames stares at him. Arthur meets his gaze, his cheeks pink. He's biting his lip and his hair is still curling up at the ends.

"For god's sake," Arthur says, leaning across their beds to encircle Eames' wrist loosely with his thumb and forefinger. "You're _not the only one who's been distracted_." He unbends his long legs and comes to stand in between the V of Eames' own. "You and your _muscles_ , god, you don't even work out, how do you—ugh." He skates his hand up Eames' arm and grips his bicep while Eames looks on, at sea. "I wanted to physically throw my laptop at you today," Arthur mumbles. "No one should look that hot at nine in the morning, it's like you're physiologically _destined_ to annoy me."

At this, Eames finally laughs. "The feeling's mutual, Arthur," he chuckles, tugging Arthur down against him—Arthur, who is surprisingly pliant and soft as he curves into Eames.

"Let's just fuck the job and spend the rest of the month fucking," Arthur says, his arms twining around Eames' stomach.

Eames grins. "You know, I'd love to," he says, "but the guy I'm seeing gets very prickly when I don't concentrate on my work."

"You don't say," Arthur huffs against Eames' collarbone. "He's probably just mad because he can't come up with an excuse to make you work shirtless."

"I'm feeling very industrious right now," Eames volunteers helpfully, and Arthur laughs, kisses him, and bears him down to the bed.

 

All in all, it's the most productive job Eames has ever had. Relatively speaking.


End file.
